


Anything You Say Can and Will be Held Against You

by crazyinjune



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Oops, if that bothers anyone, my trademark 'solve all problem with cuddles and sweets', very small description of a knife wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:24:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2088714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyinjune/pseuds/crazyinjune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“What did you do?” Combeferre’s stomach roils at the prospect of Courfeyrac’s answer. </i><br/> <br/><i>“I pulled out my camera.” Courfeyrac lets out a small laugh, and pulls up his shirt where he had been clutching it at his side. “He pulled out a knife.”<i></i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything You Say Can and Will be Held Against You

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of Courferre Week over on tumblr. Enjoy xx

Combeferre finds Courfeyrac safe in bed by the time he comes slamming through the apartment door, but it does nothing to slow his racing heartbeat.

“What.” He stops in the middle of Courfeyrac’s room, hand on his heart to slow his breathing. “ _Happened._ ”

Courfeyrac’s smile would be dazzling if it wasn’t so weak. “I was on my way home,” he says. “I was going to stop by the Musain for a second when I heard yelling - in the alley behind, you know.” One hand rests across his stomach, clenched at his side, and he tips his head back against the headboard, his breathing shallow. “Eponine.We know her, remember,  she’s friends with Marius.” He reconsiders. “At least, I _think_ she’s friends with Marius, I will never understand his social circle, or lack thereof, I mean does he even—”

“ _Courfeyrac._ ” Combeferre interrupts, voice pained. “The point.”

“She was with an older man.” Courfeyrac’s forehead creases. “Her father. He was yelling at her, had her by the arm. He _hit_ her, Combeferre, right in front of me.  I couldn’t just _stand_ there and _watch_ , I had to do something.”

“What did you do?” Combeferre’s stomach roils at the prospect of Courfeyrac’s answer.

“I pulled out my camera.” Courfeyrac lets out a small laugh, and pulls up his shirt where he had been clutching it at his side. “He pulled out a knife.”

Even through the thin gauze bandage, it is easy to see that the cut across  Courfeyrac’s stomach is long, thin, and bright red. Combeferre kneels next to the bed and reaches out to touch it,  but Courfeyrac flinches when his  fingers come  nearer, and Combeferre pulls back to put his hands in his lap to stop them from twitching forward again. He hears light footsteps behind him, and  slight rustle as Enjolras silently slips into Courfeyrac’s desk chair.

“It’ll scar, won’t it?” Courfeyrac sounds more curious than upset. “God, Eponine was fantastic. He only managed to get one lunge at me before she just hauled off and _punched him in the face_ and pulled me inside.”

Combeferre is having trouble speaking.  He puts his head in his hands.

“He’s probably still unconscious in an alley,” Courfeyrac adds gleefully. “What a knockout.”

Combeferre lifts his head. “She wouldn’t have needed to knock him out if you hadn’t been such an idiot,” he snaps.

The air around Courfeyrac stills  and he pushes himself further up on the pillows, fixing Combeferre with a hard glare. “Considering he slapped her, Combeferre, she most certainly would have punched him out anyway.”

Courfeyrac won’t look away and Combeferre can’t bear to see that glare in his face, so he looks at his fingers, folded into his lap and squeezed tightly together. “Enjolras,” he calls.

“Yes?” Enjolras is still at Courfeyrac’s desk,  solemn and stony faced.

Combeferre digs around his pockets for a scrap of paper and pen. “Can you go to the pharmacy? He needs this ointment for the gash.”

“And ice cream,” supplies Courfeyrac. Combeferre makes a _tch_ noise of dissent in the back of his throat as he hands Enjolras the paper, and Enjolras gives Courfeyrac a weary smile.

“I think Combeferre may be acting cold enough right now, don’t you?” Enjolras asks, pulling on his coat and leaving the room. They hear the front door close gently, and Combeferre lets out a sigh.

Courfeyrac frowns at the shut door, turning his head away from Combeferre and closing his eyes. Combeferre tries to reach for him to check the wound and Courfeyrac turns  his body away as well. 

“You’re upset with me,” Combeferre ventures to say.

 “I am pretending to be asleep,” Courfeyrac says very clearly, eyes still closed, “so I do not have to deal with one of your lectures.”

 “My lectures?”

 “On how confronting Thenardier was—” Courfeyrac’s lip curls in distaste. “ _Idiotic._ ” He pushes himself onto his back again to look at Combeferre, and gasps in pain. “No, don’t _touch_ me.”

 “It was pretty damn foolish, Courfeyrac. Eponine was perfectly able to handle the situation, you said it yourself.” Combeferre gets up and walks to the window and stares out of it so he doesn’t have to look at Courfeyrac. “We get ourselves in enough danger as it is, you were being  some kind of knight in shining armor, you could have done something slightly more _rational_ than making a show with your camera—”

 “Fuck your rationality.”

 Combeferre turns around with a start, and Courfeyrac is staring at him, deadly serious. “I’m sorry, what?” he asks.

 Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow in some kind of cruel and awful version of his trademark mischievous grin. “Did I stutter?”

 “That’s a very clichéd thing to say,” Combeferre points out quietly.

 “Do I have to apologize for that too?” Courfeyrac challenges. 

 “I just—” Combeferre throws up his hands. “Courfeyrac, you have a knife wound in your stomach and you expect me not to be angry?”

 “Yeah, well I’m _fine,_ Combeferre. I stopped some asshole from being an abusive awful father and Joly patched me up and everything is _fine.”_  Courfeyrac is biting his lip in anger now, his hands curling into fists in the bedsheet. He only bites his lip when he’s trying to stop himself from crying, Combeferre recalls.

 “He could have killed you.”

 “He didn’t.”

 “He could have _killed you._ ”

 “I know.”

 “You don’t understand how scared I was. I always am, of any of us being hurt. Of _you_ being hurt. ” Combeferre’s voice is thick, and he leans against the window sill, fingertips pressed at the bridge of his nose. “Or worse.”

 Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow again. This time there is no harshness in his face but a small smile. “Probably around as scared as I was when I confronted a knife wielding maniac.” Combeferre laughs a strangled sort of laugh and Courfeyrac sighs. “We put ourselves in situations that could get us killed quite a lot, you know. It’s not like it’s a baking club we’re running.”

 “We should.” Combeferre says slowly, making his way back to Courfeyrac’s bed and gingerly sitting on the edge. “Run a baking club instead, I mean.”

 “It _would_ be hilarious if Feuilly started specializing in mille-feuilles,” Courfeyrac acknowledges.

 Combeferre reaches out to lift Courfeyrac’s shirt, and this time Courfeyrac lets him. “Ouch,” he says as Combeferre runs his hand along the gauze covering the gash. “ _Ouch,_ ” he says again as Combeferre pulls him into a hug.

 “God, Courfeyrac, I was _terrified._ ” Combeferre pulls out of the hug and rests his forehead on Courfeyrac’s. Courfeyrac keeps their hands gripped together and rubs his thumbs in circles around the back of Combeferre’s hands.

 “I’m sorry. I know, I’m sorry.”

 “You bloody well should be.” Combeferre climbs over Courfeyrac’s legs to get into the bed next to him.

 “I’m not sorry for confronting the bastard,” Courfeyrac clarifies, warning in his voice. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Combeferre smiles. “I can live with that.” Satisfied, Courfeyrac lays his head on Combeferre’s chest and closes his eyes, hand lying protectively over his bandaged stomach.

“Move over,” Enjolras says to Combeferre a few minutes later, having come in with a bag from the pharmacy.  Combeferre is infinitely grateful for the size of Courfeyrac’s bed as he shifts to give Enjolras room. “Wake up, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras calls over Combeferre’s shoulder.

“Enjolras, don’t—” Combeferre warns. 

Enjolras holds up the bag. “I brought ice cream.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes fly open and he lets out a whooping laugh.

“Hey, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac says once all of them are crowded on the bed together, eating java chip straight from the carton.

“Mmmmph?” Enjolras asks around the spoon in his mouth.

“Me and Combeferre are gonna start a baking club.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://crazyinjune.tumblr.com)!


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